Fifty Shades of the Greater Good
by lokilette
Summary: A collection of fifty drabbles relating to Gellert Grindelwald, Albus Dumbledore, and the global wizarding war that ended in 1945. Rated M for language, violence, and stuff that Dark Wizards are prone to do.
1. The Half-Blood Wizard

**Author's Note: **This is for the "Fifty Shades of" challenge whereby you write 50 drabbles about a certain idea. This is "For the Greater Good," so it'll basically revolve around the idea of Gellert Grindelwald, Albus Dumbledore, and anything that takes place during the global wizarding war. Rated M for language and violence and, you know, stuff that Dark Wizards are prone to do. ;) Reviews are loved and appreciated, as always. Enjoy!

* * *

Gellert started, having been yanked out of a deep sleep, and pulled his thread-bare blanket tighter around his frame. At first, he blamed it on the cold, the way it nipped at his bones and infected every cell of his body. Or maybe it was the wind that rattled the loose boards of the shack and threatened to topple it, just like the wolf in that fairy tale. Slowly, he realized he had been woken by voices, both loud and angry, invading the loft where he slept.

They were at it again, which wasn't particularly surprising. The foolish, old Muggle was envious of everything his wife possessed that he did not – youth, wit, beauty, and, most of all, magic. Therefore, he subjugated her in any way he could, from demeaning words to confining her to the house.

Gellert shifted on his cot, determined to tune them out. Despite his attempts, his father's voice still filtered up through the floorboards.

"Shut your goddamn mouth! _I_ am the man here. _You_ do as I say. Don't forget your place, you filthy witch."

He sounded drunk, with the words as wobbly as Gellert imagined the man would be at that point. In any case, the argument was over. That was always the end of it. Mother knew her place, of course. As a woman, it was beneath all men. As a witch, it was beneath the Muggles. As a mother, it was beneath her child. Such was the farcical world they lived in.

If his father had only listened to her, even if it was simply to claim her wit as his own, they wouldn't live in squalor. If only she was permitted to use her magic, their run-down shack would become something quite magnificent. As it were, his father had splintered her wand while in the midst of a drunken rage and laid those hopes to rest long ago.

Gellert flipped back over to the other side, putting his parents out of his mind. He focused on the sound of the rain falling in gentle plops into the buckets around his cot where the roof leaked. The storm was like a gentle drum beating out a melody, and he let it lull him back into sleep.

* * *

Gellert was relieved to find, when he was called to breakfast, that his father had already left early for work. The kitchen was quiet, save for his mother's occasional humming, as he pushed his gruel around with his spoon.

"Don't play with your food, Gellert. How many times do I have to tell you? You're old enough now. Eat up."

His mother hadn't even paused in her cleaning as she delivered the lecture. He imagined she must have been tired, the way she was on her feet all day and just starting to show. It was futile, their incessant attempts to procreate. His father had been disappointed, though, to find he had sired a wizard and had hoped to replace him with a "normal" boy. Gellert wasn't in the least bit concerned with his father's plight; he would be off at Durmstrang by the time they got around to burying the next child, their sixth attempt at replacing him.

"Why do you stay here, Mother?"

"What ever do you mean?" At that, she had stopped cleaning and turned to face him. He knew, by the softness in her eyes, that she understood perfectly but was too proud to concede the truth.

"You could come with me when I go to Durmstrang. We could enter the wizarding world together."

Though most of his mother's family was dead, he knew that his great-aunt was still alive, at least, and well-known in the wizarding world. It was thanks to her benefaction that he was able to go to wizarding school at all, as they had very little Muggle money and absolutely no wizarding money at all to their name.

She carefully lowered herself into the chair across from him, scooting back slightly to make room for her swollen belly. She watched him quietly for a few minutes.

"Gellert, this is your chance, not mine. Go and do what you must, and do not lament for me here. This is where I belong. I have chosen my own life, and you must choose yours."

She smiled, but he knew that what she truly wanted was to cry. They were enough alike that surely she had already guessed what desires lay in the echoes of his heart. He would leave within the year, and, once he did, he would never return to the Muggle world. Not even for her.

"But why? Why do you stay?"

"Oh, you wouldn't understand. You're just a child. But I love your father very much. Sometimes people put up with a lot when they're in love. One day, you'll understand."

Love. What a useless, nettlesome emotion that knocked otherwise intelligent, capable people off their rockers. The things that were perpetrated under the guise of love were profane and derisive. Gellert made a silent vow that he would never let something so inane impede his proper judgment.

_For as long as I live, I shall never fall in love._

* * *

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns anything and everything that pertains to the Harry Potter series.


	2. Before the Fall

**1899**

Light filtering down, embracing us in a warm cocoon amid the cool grass. I'm in heaven.

(Hell must be nearby.)

Wisps of auburn bleed into unrefined gold as our heads touch. I can hear his thoughts.

(They will not always be so clear.)

Hearts race; time slows. I can see his dreams written in the clouds—perfect, tangible.

(He does not see mine.)

He speaks, shedding beautiful notes off his tongue. They crescendo into a harmony—of hope, of life, of love. We want to change the world.

(The world will change us.)

The connection is broken as he sits up. My breath hitches; I long to have him near.

(We will not always be so close.)

He confesses our secrets—hushed tones, like a lullaby. They are ours alone. "We can be together—_forever_."

(Nothing lasts forever.)

The world moves around us as we move together. Two hearts coalesce; I am as much a part of him as he is of me.

(Like a horcrux, he keeps me alive.)

With a look, he bares his soul. I can see the future in his eyes: a light that flickers in his dark-blue irises.

(Somewhere in the darkness, we've lost the light.)

* * *

**Word Count:** 198

**Author's Note:** Written for the Daily Prophet edition two competition: "A Little Bit of Déjà Vu". I used the Season 2, round 4 Chaser 2 prompt: write a fic that starts and ends with the same concrete noun. Also written for the Stratified Agate Competition: write a 100-200 word drabble about your pairing (Grindeldore).


	3. Rise and Fall of a Dark Wizard

**Author's Note:** Written for the "Walls Have Eyes" Halloween competition in Diagon Alley II: write from the perspective of a portrait in Hogwarts. I chose Salazar Slytherin.

* * *

_There can be no such thing as secrets when even the walls have eyes._

_._

**[1943]**

I recognized it at once, that most insidious poison that squanders talent and ultimately destroys even the greatest of wizards: love. From the moment a shadow passed over those twinkling blue eyes, I knew it was the beginning of the end.

"Grindelwald?"

The inflection in his voice was perfect, a slight flourish at the end of a seemingly harmless word to imply unfamiliarity. It was delivered with such sincerity that everyone in the room believed its pretense—except for me, of course.

"Oh, you know, Albus. Dark Wizard that's creating all that ruckus across Europe. Of course you've heard of him or, at the very least, his doings," Headmaster What's-His-Name said with a wave of his hand. He was a fool-born son of a Muggle who couldn't even muster enough wit to realize he should have dropped dead centuries ago, and his voice was as lovely as a chorus of cicadas. Still, I couldn't deny that being housed in the Headmaster's Office had its perks.

"I know of him. I doubt whether anyone in this room has never heard the name. I was just surprised that you would bring it up."

"Well, this _is_ a meeting to discuss our concerns in regards to the students. I dare say the threat of war falls under that umbrella," Galatea Merrythought drawled on, twirling a lock of hair around her finger as if she thought that might breathe life into the flat, limp mess on her head. "Though, we've been lucky thus far. He hasn't made it this far west, and Britain remains a safe haven."

"Yes, yes. Seems almost a shame," Horace Slughorn answered absentmindedly. The rest of the table stared at him incredulously. I doubt anyone believed someone could legitimately be so stupid, yet Horace proved himself time and time again. As he became aware of the sudden scrutiny, he threw his hands up in an innocent shrug and explained, "Well, I should think I'd like to meet the man who can cause such turmoil. Now _that_ would be a fascinating encounter."

His voice trailed off, but everyone in the room understood what he meant. He had an obsession with "collecting" famous personas, as if that could somehow make up for his own droll and lack-luster personality. It didn't.

A shadow flickered over Dumbledore's face like a storm brewing on the horizon, as if he was incensed at the idea that Grindelwald existed solely for someone else's amusement. Quite the interesting turn of events, I had to admit. The Light Wizard falling for the Dark. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last. Nor, I had to admit, was I unfamiliar with that sort of sordid love affair. Before anyone could take notice, the moment was gone, and his countenance was as calm and passive as ever.

"I dare say our students shall be just fine in that regard," Herbert Beery said as he magically stirred his tea. He paused a moment to take a sip, steam billowing over his large nose. He must have been satisfied since he took a second one, though it looked disgusting from where I was positioned on the wall. "Any Witches and Wizards with common sense are staying in the West. As long as they continue to do so, and practice a bit of discretion, they'll get along. After all, what do we have to worry about? Look at France. No worse for wear, if I do say so myself, and France _always_ falls before Britain. The day we receive word from Beauxbatons is the day I start to have concerns."

"Call me overly cautious," Silvanus Kettleburn said, rubbing his stubble with his only remaining hand, "but perhaps, just perhaps, we should start preparing the students for the worst."

The fact that he still trudged on despite missing the majority of his appendages seemed almost noble—if not for his foolhardy nature and penchant for collecting probations.

"What have you got in mind?" Dippet asked.

"More advanced magic in Defence, for starters."

"Pardon me?" Merrythought scoffed, foregoing her hair to turn her hawkish gaze on her colleague. "My curriculum serves the students just fine, thank you. I'll have you know that we've scarcely _seen_ higher marks than this year. Meanwhile, you sit out there and do...What exactly is it you do? Besides maim the students, that is."

"Once! Once, you bloody witch, and you'll never let me live that down, will you?" What was left of Kettleburns' left arm—little more than a stump and some skin—flopped around animatedly as he shouted, slamming his other hand on the table.

"Oh, oh, not my tea!" Beery cried, snatching the cup and saucer from the table just as things started to get heated.

Dumbledore himself scooted his chair back a few feet from the table. Though he remained a silent observer, the imminent outburst was not lost on him. Out of all the professors at the table, he was the only one with any wit left about him—a testimony to just how far Hogwarts had fallen under its current headmaster.

"Please, everyone, let's not lose our—" Dippet started, waving his hand to motion for his professors to simmer down. The natural leader that he was, they behaved like I so often did and pretended he simply didn't exist.

After that, the room was filled with indistinguishable nonsense spewing from all directions. Staff meetings were lively, there was no doubting that, but it made me long for the simpler days when disagreeing with someone meant you acted cordial and polite in public, then slipped a few drops of Draught of Living Death in their goblet at supper. Why did Wizards have to complicate things so in modern times?

While everyone was predisposed, assured as I was that I would miss nothing of merit there, I took the opportunity to slip out of my frame and head to the seventh-floor corridor.

It was as good a meeting place as any, given that there was no one there to bear witness. Well, save for a handful of trolls whose only method of communication was a poor game of charades, and even then, they were normally distracted mid-gesture. Their caretaker was a greater concern, but only slightly so, and he was off visiting, as he often did. Even if he should return, he was keen to accept any reason to abandon his post, and why wouldn't he? How much wit could one expect from a coxcomb who considered it a worthwhile endeavor to teach trolls ballet?

The hallway was as bereft of life as it always was, which meant the boy was late. Again. While he certainly possessed sufficient wit and cunning to do his heritage proud, he had an equal abundance of arrogance. If not reigned in, it could prove nettlesome.

Shooting the trolls one final glance—they were an embarrassment, which was saying a lot given what took place within these walls—I abandoned the tapestry in favor of my own frame.

The Headmaster's Office was still in the throes of chaos when I returned, and I arrived just in time to see Kettleburn flip the meeting table, which I had to admit was a feat I had imagined was impossible for the one-handed wizard. I was wrong.

Papers fluttered around the room like butterflies, alighting in random places. Dippet was on his feet with a large tea stain drizzling down the front of his robes. Beery was still seated, looking nonplussed and unaware that his teacup was now across the room and empty.

And Dumbledore...well, Dumbledore was as fascinating as always. Chair scooted back several feet, he remained calm and collected, even as things between Kettleburn and Merrythought grew heated. He watched them silently, popping a sherbet lemon into his mouth.

"You, sir, are little more than a barbaric beast incapable of controlling his temper," Merrythought said, words sharp and pointed. The epitome of grace, she was poised with her hand over her breast, pursed lips, and an unattractive vein throbbing in her neck.

"Galatea, please—" Dippet started, grabbing stray papers as he attempted to diffuse the situation. His methods were as effective as his administration; no one paid him any heed.

"Oh, what do you know?" Kettleburn snorted and kicked at a stack of papers that had just settled, sending them flying and causing Dippet to chase after them, plucking them one-by-one from the air.

"Silvanus, would you just—"

"I understand that you act so boorish simply out of jealousy, but really."

"Jealousy?" Kettleburn scoffed. "Jealous of what?"

"Really, now, I must insist that you—" Dippet tried again, only to receive a dismissive wave as Merrythought continued.

"Why, because I have more talent in just my pinky finger than you have—"

"Ha! Isn't that rich? Especially seeing as how I haven't got any!" To illustrate his point, Kettleburn shook his hand in her face, the remaining four fingers extended to highlight the missing fifth.

"All right, everyone, I think that's more than—"

Despite Dippet's attempts, the professors easily brushed him off, launching into another argument. Regardless of how loud he got or how furiously he flailed his arms, the headmaster was quickly forgotten.

"Enough!"

Despite his calm facade, the word echoed around the room, and everyone fell silent as they turned their attention to Dumbledore. He waved his wand, and everything put itself back into its proper place. The chairs even scooped up their respective professors as they scooted back to the table.

"I believe that, if I'm not mistaken, our headmaster has something to tell us." Dumbledore's tone was even and patient, not at all raised yet still commanding attention. Never had I witnessed a more talented actor; never had I met a more masterful manipulator. If ever my plans were to succeed, I needed him out of the way. Of that, at least, I was sure.

With the meeting reigned in once more, the conversation turned elsewhere, to topics I couldn't even begin to feign an interest in. Accordingly, I took my leave.

By the time I reached the seventh floor again, I was greeted by hardened brown eyes and a clenched jaw.

"You're late," he said, sweeping his gaze around the hallway one more time. I had no doubts that he had thoroughly checked to be sure we were alone. Paranoia was unbecoming to a young man, but that was one lesson he seemed unable to grasp.

"_I_ was promptly on time, Master Riddle. Portrait or no, I have better things to do than wait around for you if being punctual proves too difficult."

The lines of his face became sharper as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. He was used to getting by on flattery and charm, but his silver tongue was of no use here. I was not so easily assuaged.

"I apologize. I had trouble slipping away."

"Of course." I paused, switching from English to a language I knew only he and I spoke in all of Hogwarts. "The Chamber is waiting. Now is the time."

"I'm ready," he answered in the very same language that had been his inheritance.

My legacy was about to be fulfilled. He boasted everything I could ask for in an heir and, as I stared into the void behind his pupils, none of the weaknesses. This was a wizard who would never succumb to love's necrotic grasp.

* * *

**[1945]**

So the rumors held some substance. I had been reticent to believe them, but the stooped shoulders and shuffling amble belied the truth. The Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald had fallen, and with him, so too would Albus Dumbledore. It was a conclusion that no one else drew because he played his part well, but the walls had eyes and so I knew better.

There was a dull sheen to the normally bright eyes as they scrutinized the hall. I tucked myself behind a tree and waited for him to conclude that he was alone.

When he was satisfied that no one was watching—a dangerous conclusion within these walls—he walked back and forth three times and a door appeared. The Room of Requirement.

Rumors of what it housed were abundant, but I had an inkling that there was only one treasure he was after—the Mirror of Erised. I couldn't begin to guess how long he'd stay there. Maybe he'd waste away, as so many had before him, though I knew I could never be so fortunate.

I was certain what he'd see reflected in the smooth, unforgiving surface. Just as I would find the same alabaster skin, raven hair, and glacial eyes that ever haunted me, he would see perhaps a boyish face, hair devoid of any signs of age, and a winsome smile. Such was the curse of those of us who were conquered and deceived by love.

I abandoned the tapestry and made my way to the dungeons, where I bode my time as students trickled past, adorned in the colors of my House. Not always an impressive lot, I had to admit. Many had so little cunning that it could be contained within a thimble. But all that would change soon enough, now that there was nothing to stop us.

The swell of students died down as curfew was called. Not long after that, a dark figure emerged from the common room.

"You have news?" he whispered, scanning the shadows. Always searching. For what, I wasn't sure.

"Dumbledore has fallen. None shall stand in our way."

"How can you be so sure?"

I fought to hold my tongue, the ungrateful cur that he was. How dare he question my judgment, as if I owed him some sort of explanation. I most assuredly did not.

"He is not any less powerful, but he is broken."

Riddle glowered at me—Merlin could that boy pout, even at seventeen—but I would give him no more than that. The way Dumbledore would carry his burden like Atlas, eventually bowing under the strain; the seed of doubt that was already taking root in his chest that would grow until he became paralyzed by his own indecision; the fear that history would repeat itself; the scars of love and inevitable loss—this was all information garnered from my own experience. It was something the youth would never comprehend, so it was pointless to burden him with the knowledge.

Such was Riddle's power; his abstinence in the realm of love would prove his greatest ally.

A Dark Wizard had fallen, but in his wake, a Dark Lord was on the rise.

* * *

**[1998]**

It came as no surprise to me as the news snaked its way through the war-battered walls of Hogwarts: "Voldemort has fallen!"

Of course he had. It was inevitable, one cruel twist of fate that seemed to become its own self-fulfilling prophecy.

All great wizards are destroyed by love.


End file.
